


I Heard You.

by shlebs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shlebs/pseuds/shlebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go out to talk to the press after Sherlock reveals he had heard John's speech at his grave. However, John is not ready to let go of the topic just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Heard You.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a lil one-shot I've been thinking of this since the episode ended. I hope everyone enjoyed The Empty Hearse!

Sherlock closed the door behind him with a slight click.

He turned to face John. Sherlock squinted slightly, his eyes traveling over the doctor he had just been interviewed with. He was rubbing his middle finger and thumb together in quick, small movements. His collar was a shade darker than the rest of his shirt, signaling perspiration. The lines of his forehead burrowed ever so slightly, the creases at his eyes deeper than usual.

John was nervous.

"John," Sherlock sighed, as he strode forwards towards the staircase. "I know it's been quite an extensive period of time since we've collaborated, so I can only fathom that you might be out of practice when it comes to interviews. If they are causing you any anxiety, I wholly understand. You are not required to partici-"

"The interview didn't bother me, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped his ascent up the stairs, and swiveled around to face his companion. It was his turn to furrow his brow.

"Don't be daft, John. A slight but non-insignificant tremor has developed between your forefinger and your thumb, and your perspiration has dampened y-"

"The interview didn't bother me." John repeated. Sherlock stared blankly at him.

John let out a modest breath. "I'm not nervous, Sherlock. Or anxious, or apprehensive, or any feeling of the sort. I know it's been a while, but I guess you really are out of practice when it comes to reading people."

Sherlock loosened his scarf, and untied it, letting it drape over his neck. He descended down the steps until he was at level ground with his friend. He removed the deer-stalker from his loose curls, and set it on top of the banister.

"John, I must admit, I'm not quite sure I understand."

The doctor exhaled, and sat on one of the wooden steps. He motioned for Sherlock to follow suit, which he obligingly did. He twiddled his thumbs together, staring at his calloused hands. Remnants of white correction fluid stained his fingertips from the morning, when he had attempted to white-out some forms, and spilled the miniature bottle in the process. Silent seconds ticked by. Sherlock tapped his foot on the ground in ennui. He still had quite a ways to go in terms of re-memorizing London, and he longed to return to his maps and diagrams which adorned the wall of his flat.

"Sherlock...I'm confused."

"What for?"

John stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You said...you said you heard me. And I understand that. But why? I know you said you couldn't trust me, but really, two years? Even if you had come back maybe a year ago, things wouldn't be different. I wouldn't have hurt you as badly."

Sherlock chuckled. "John, you would've tackled me regardless. A natural response from any trained soldier."

John let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah, I suppose I would have."

Silence resumed. The pair sat together, blanketed by the still, stiff air.

"I heard you. I heard you vocalize that I was the best man you had ever known. I heard you pray to some enigmatic force that I could supernaturally return from my grave. I heard your quiet, choked sobs, and the sound of grass crunching underneath your militant stride as you backed away from the tombstone and into your daily life. And I smiled."

John looked up at the consulting detective, who stared at the door before them.

"Two years, John. Two years is what it took to dismantle Moriarty's network. As I previously stated, Moriarty was a spider, who had strategically spun his web of associates. His links ranged from India to Denmark. I infiltrated temples, I discovered thieves, and I did my best to solve menial cases on the side. But I had to be certain that my identity would remain disclosed." Sherlock continued.

Sniffles invaded the pause after he had spoken. John bowed his head, eyes fixated on his lap. 

"But John, do you understand? On that rooftop, all those sunrises ago, that eternity before now, I had decided I was going to continue on as such. I would disassemble his network, and continue my career under a new, false identity. I could spare you the pain, the ache that you would experience after my death. You could move on with your life, John. You would meet Mary and wed her and occasionally visit Mrs. Hudson and rekindle good relations with your sister, and your pain would dissolve over time, and your nights would eventually be filled with pleasant dreams. But I couldn't do it, John. I couldn't. Because I heard you."

Abruptly, he rose from his seat on the stairwell, and raised his arms. 

"I heard you, John! I heard you, and that sealed our fate! Because John, I may be the best man you ever knew, and possibly the most human, but if I have learned one thing from my observations on human behavior, it is that humans are greedy and egocentric! And yes John, I am the most human, because I am just that! I knew that if I stayed away, you could move on with your life, but I took your impassioned request for my return to heart! I knew that you were only stating this because you were in mourning, your infinitesimal mind clouded with emotions, and your judgement impaired due to such sentiments! It's not what you truly wanted, but I am avaricious, and I cannot stay away! Your request nagged in the back of my mind every day of those two years! I knew I had to return to you John, because I twisted your emotionally-charged, impaired plea into a desire of my own! I deluded myself into thinking it would be best, just for a petty excuse to see you once again, because who I am truly without my blogger?" Sherlock cried, his baritone rumbling through the hallway and into John's head.

He slammed a fist into the wall, the cracking sound it produce ringing through the thick air. He rested his head on the wall, and slammed his fist into once more. Over and over again, Sherlock pummeled into the thin papered wall. The voices rang through his head. "Dickhead." Slam. "Machine." Slam. "Psycho." Slam. 

He felt a hand on his arm. 

"Thank you."

Sherlocks eyes burned, as he slowly turned his head towards his friend. His drooping eyelids lifted until he made eye contact with John, both of their light eyes matching each other in luminosity. He dropped his hand from the 

"What are you expressing gratitude for?" Sherlock choked out.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! I was completely lost without you. I met Mary, and I've been at least a bit better since, but that's only recent. The first year was hell, Sherlock. Every day, I wished for the same thing. I wanted you back. It wasn't just that one time. It was every day. It wasn't just when I was in mourning. It was every waking second. It finally got to be too much, and I had to move out. But that didn't mean I stopped wishing. It was only when I met Mary that I truly tried to move on. I didn't want her to be with someone who was still obsessing over the death of someone he knew for only a year and a half. But how could I not? Everything I said was true, Sherlock; you were the best man I had ever met. And you still are."

He removed his hand from Sherlock's arm, and straightened his jacket. He coughed, clearing his throat, and looked to Mrs. Hudson's door.

"I'm...I'm glad that you decided to come back."

The voices that had swarmed Sherlock's mind began to recede. He smiled slightly, gazing downwards, so John wouldn't see.

"You truly are a conductor of light, John."

Sherlock looked upwards and John turned his head to the right, their eyes connecting with a ferocity known to few. They both laughed. John stepped towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock, wrapped his arms back, but, unsure what to do, patted his back a mere three times before dropping them to his side. John refused to let go however.

"I really am glad."


End file.
